


Copper Kisses

by MischiefJoKeR



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Biting, Character Turned Into Vampire, Couch Sex, Dirty Talk, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Post-The Sign of Three, Prompt Fic, Vampire Sex, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-04
Updated: 2014-02-04
Packaged: 2018-01-11 03:32:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1168163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MischiefJoKeR/pseuds/MischiefJoKeR
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt fic for leavetherose on Tumblr</p><p>Sherlock spends his days as the only occupant of 221b Baker street. During his lounging, he has a visitor in the night. Another deal with the Devil is offered, and he'd be a fool to refuse an opportunity such as this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Copper Kisses

**Author's Note:**

> leavetherose asked jimlock:  
> I would be soooo happy to see an explicit Sherlock fic where the reason Moriarty survived is that he had consumed vampire blood shortly before the fall. I'd be over joyed if you could write about Moriarty sneaking into Sherlock's flat to have slightly dub con sex and turn him as well because death was soooo dull without his rival.

The door opened, lock undone with an easy swipe of a card. Sherlock kept his eyes closed, hands folded on his chest and his body strewn on the couch. The following silence almost stirred Sherlock out of his meditation. He’d heard the other enter, anticipated it even, but he refused to move.

Finally, hard clicks of shoes were heard crossing the firm floor of 221b. Not John’s pace, or scent even. It was headier, all-consuming and overtaking all the blissfully boring oxygen. The hair on the back of his neck rose, and the clicks stopped.

“Sleeping beauty…why ever did you touch the spindle?” The voice didn’t bother whispering. It was low, smooth, and positively dripping in a drawling accent. Sherlock’s thick eyebrow twitched once, as if daring the other to speak again. There was a chuckle. Of course he knew Sherlock was awake.

Awake…

Sherlock opened his eyes, staring straight up into the near-black depths.

“You’re dead.”

“What an inventive greeting.” Moriarty may have smiled, but Sherlock couldn’t look away from his eyes, refusing to even blink. Above him, a man he’d believed to have blown his brains out was stood in his sitting room. He supposed weirder things had happened. Before a proper response could make its way out of his throat, the ghost of the criminal ran a hand through Sherlock’s messy hair. Even through the thick curls he felt the other’s fingertips, massaging gently, cold.

“Have you worked out how I did it?” Moriarty asked, watching his fingers get tangled in hair. “Do you need a hint?” Sherlock looked up into the dark eyes above him, curious, but unwilling to verbalize. Yes, he needed a hint. There was no way that he had survived up on the roof of Bart’s. But no one had gone to double check either.

“It’s impossible.” He frowned a moment later.

“And what do you say about that?” Moriarty’s smile didn’t falter, though his voice changed to be like he was conversing with a child.

“If you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.” He didn’t want to know how the criminal knew about that.

“A+ recitation, Mr. Holmes.” His head tilted just slightly, fingers now brushing aside Sherlock’s bangs. “I will give you a hint, though.” He stepped around to the front of the couch, hand not even leaving the detective’s head. Sherlock’s eyes followed the easy movement, trying to relax the tremor he could feel building up. He shouldn’t be allowing the criminal to strut around his home yet he was, for curiosity’s sake.

Before he could think further, the criminal straddled his lap, one knee pressed against the back of the couch and Sherlock’s hip. The detective moved to sit himself up, edging away from the strange position. Moriarty shushed him, gripping his hair for a moment before giving it a pet. “Don’t you want your hint? Just hold still…” The man above him grinned, all pearly white teeth and—

Oh, Christ.

“Get off of me,” Sherlock narrowed his eyes, his arms finding their uses again. They went to shove Moriarty back by the shoulders, his instincts taking over his grace and tactics to just get him away. He didn’t even blink and his wrists were caught in two cold hands, pressed down at the edge of the couch cushion.

“Poor Sherlock,” the man above him sighed. Sherlock rolled his hips in attempt to flip the criminal off him, but he could hardly move a muscle. The man was stronger. “So confused, so curious.” His tone reached the higher, patronizing tone he often took. He smiled once more, dropping his jaw and running his tongue over his teeth, especially the enlarged canines on his maxilla. “Was this too much of a hint?”

“It’s a farce.” Sherlock retorted. “Fairytales, you would say.”

“Mmhm,” Moriarty hummed in his throat, leaning forward so his head was parallel to Sherlock’s. His eyes slide shut just so and he inhaled, taking in some kind of scent, mouth slightly agape to aid him. “That _is_ nice, very nice…” Sherlock’s brows cinched closer together as he was ignored. He wondered in the back of his mind that it was what he did to John so many times. “Don’t worry about the how, dear.”

“Tell me.” Sherlock ordered.

“Demanding, aren’t you?” The man above him quirked an eyebrow up toward his hairline. “You aren’t in such a position to be giving out orders, Mr. Holmes.” His eyes moved down the detective’s prone body firmly held down beneath him. Sherlock tried to wriggle himself free once more, but Moriarty’s grip was iron. “Alright, alright. But don’t go around telling everyone, it’s still a secret.” He teased in an attempted whisper. The irony of the declaration being similar to what he’d told John was not lost on him.

“Working with all those underground baddies has advantages. You find some people that don’t want to be found out…it’s pretty easy getting them to do whatever you like in exchange for their privacy.” Moriarty dragged his fingertips up and down Sherlock’s exposed wrists, his grip never loosening. “So,” he held the syllable and changed the pitch each moment he did. “It wasn’t hard to convince one of them to give me a bit of their blood. Drinking it down while I waited for you on that roof was plenty of time for it to go into affect.” He smiled all teeth. Sherlock couldn’t look away from the canines, perhaps even growing longer, the eyes his smile didn’t touch glinting like rubies. “I die, but, transforming into an immortal is _super_ easy when you’re dead. Woke up oh, five minutes later? I missed your little show on the pavement but, I’d say it was worth it in the long haul.”

“You’re trying to convince me that you’re a vampire.” Sherlock kept his voice as steady as possible, but something about the criminal practically nuzzling his jaw caused his breath to hitch.

“Am I succeeding?” Moriarty chuckled, and Sherlock’s jaw tightened to avoid a visible shiver. He was cold, like a corpse, but his breath was warm and caused his blood to boil. Synapses were firing in all the wrong places and oh for god’s sake, the danger of it all. Sherlock shook his head for lack of anything better, stunned silent. The criminal’s eyebrows rose and his smile grew more vicious. “ _Oh,_ I can give you a proper demonstration, then.” His fingers pushed aside the dressing gown over the detective’s shoulders. The collar of his t-shirt was stretched down, the area just next to Sherlock’s porcelain neck visible.

The detective bucked. A sharp hip managed to dislodge one of the vices that were Moriarty’s legs, and cause him to slip off the couch. Sherlock tugged his wrists back, but Moriarty tugged harder—impossibly so, yanking Sherlock towards him, half sprawled on the floor of the Baker Street flat. The criminal simply cackled once more, his grip on Sherlock’s wrists like handcuffs, preventing him from moving away any further.

“Good, good! Well, no, very bad, Sherlylocks. Don’t you want to know some more? Learning about vampires might be more interesting than all that tobacco ash you write about.” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. He was on his knees, the criminal sitting just in front of him and keeping him locked in place. “You think they aren’t real. Honey, I can give you some firsthand knowledge. Think about it: immortality. You wouldn’t have an expiration date on that pretty mind of yours.” Sherlock found himself leaning in only when he felt Moriarty whispering his tempting words in his ear. “Constantly finding new things. The underworld has so much you’ve never thought about. Hell, with things getting so advanced you’d never run out of stuff to dissect. And if you do get bored, well, there’s another immortal to keep you occupied.”

Sherlock felt his eyes go heavy, Moriarty’s fingers releasing his wrists to rub up and down his arms. “No more worrying about those dangerous criminals. You’ll destroy them. They can worship the ground we walk. We’d be unstoppable, darling. Johnny-boy already left you for that woman, so why waste your days pining for his attention? You can be at the center of it. I won’t mind sharing. You’ll be admired for the rest of your days, infinitely more people to deduce and blow away with that intellect of yours. Do as you please. No consequences. I rather like that bit.” Moriarty added, his hands ceasing their caress to prop on Sherlock’s shoulder’s, loosely around his neck.

Sherlock swallowed, and realized he’d closed his eyes. He opened them carefully, seeing Moriarty just a breath away from him, fluttering his lashes as if he needed to look even more tantalizing. Lord knows it did help his cause, though Sherlock nearly had a conniption watching it. “You said you’d shake hands with me in hell, darling. You left me hanging. Can I have this, instead? Us, forever?” His voice was light, traces of that low caramel Irish drawl nonexistent.

“ _Yes,”_ Sherlock breathed. His chest tightened at the smile that spread over the criminal’s—the vampire’s—face. Moriarty’s fingers gripped Sherlock’s shoulders. Sherlock huffed momentarily but rose to his feet, pulling the shorter man up with him. Moriarty turned and dropped onto the couch, pulling Sherlock down so quickly their heads almost clattered together. Instead Sherlock caught himself on the back of the sofa, thighs straddling the criminal’s hips in a mimic of what he’d done earlier. “Get on with it, then.” Sherlock snarled.

Moriarty shushed him, grip on his shoulders loosening, hands instead smoothing out the dressing gown and letting it slip off the detective’s arms and pool at his elbows. The hands followed the fabric before going to his waist, slipping up under the lazy t-shirt of the day. Sherlock flinched at the cold fingers that slid up his sides. “I’d like to take my time with you, my dear.”  Sherlock grumbled from where he was propped up above the criminal, but took a sharp inhale as Moriarty’s fingers slipped over his nipples, chilling him.

The criminal wasn’t kidding, either. Cold fingers and manicured nails took their time mapping out every cell of Sherlock’s skin, pressing in certain places he seemed to know would cause the detective to writhe. After an agonizing time of teasing, Moriarty’s thumbs brushed at the waist of Sherlock’s pajama bottoms, snapping at the elastic. The younger Holmes couldn’t withhold a whimper as his hips rocked forward on the other’s lap. Moriarty hummed, pleased, fingers gripping Sherlock hips and flipping him onto his back on the couch.

“Behave now, Sherly. Daddy will take care of you.” Jim pushed Sherlock’s robe all the way off, leaving it to provide silken comfort between his back and the couch cushions. Sherlock scoffed once but inhaled afterwards as the hands removed his t-shirt in a lightning-quick motion. He shook the dark curls out from his eyes and let his hands drop back against the sofa as Moriarty looked down at him like a fresh kill. It caused him to shudder, the fear being replaced with a more animalistic urge. “Mm, I’m going to like this, my sweet.”

Moriarty nestled himself between Sherlock’s thin legs, the two of them pressed together and causing the warmth to pool below Sherlock’s waist. The criminal chuckled, practically laying himself over the detective, scooting up just to enjoy the look of repressed pleasure on Sherlock’s face. He made it up to the scowl on his face, staring down into the blue-green slivers around the enlarged pupils. Cold hands explored the exposed skin of his chest and he covered Sherlock’s lips with his own. Unlike his cold appendages, his lips were practically burning, making Sherlock flinch and open his own for invasion. Moriarty took advantage of divesting the detective of breath, as well as his own suit jacket.

Sherlock lost track of time, trapped in a mixed daze of burning heat over his mouth and neck and the chilling cold of fingertips on his stomach. By the time the criminal moved far enough back for oxygen to flood his lungs, the two had been reduced to wearing nothing. The detective didn’t care to deduce how the criminal got them both naked without him noticing, all he noticed now was the warm line Moriarty’s erection was pressing against his thigh. He wriggled, his eyes half-lidded yet still trying to absorb the other’s pale, slightly freckled body above him.

The arm of the couch was soft enough, but it still hurt when his head flung back onto it. Moriarty ground their hips together, their lengths aligning and dragging against each other sinfully. A groan escaped him as fingertips pressed into the sharpest point of his hips, holding him down. Moriarty whispered something his way but the words were lost among the swirl of base thoughts infecting his mind. Gone was the doubt of what he was, how he was alive. The only string of thought he could handle was _yes, more, this,_ Jim _._

A chuckle did make its way to his ears, and only then he realized the words must have been said aloud. Sherlock shifted slightly as Jim’s hand moved away from his hip and buried under the sofa cushions, rummaging for a moment before retrieving a small bottle. Sherlock barely had the mental capacity to roll his eyes. John certainly left the flat as it had been, then. He laid his head back against the armrest and took a few breaths, hearing the sloppy noises of lubricant slicking the other’s hand, a filthy thought just making his blood boil. His hips rolled once more and he gave a sigh as the friction assisted with the painful, primal need clinging to him.

“Ah ah, darling. Patience.” Moriarty hummed, his fingers finding the place Sherlock needed them most. He tensed for a moment, but Jim leaned down and just the scent of the other man made his muscles go slack. Jim kissed all over his face, his senses overwhelming him to do not much else but let the other man prepare him and let the supernatural calm envelope him. Part of his mind figured that it was the pheromones from a vampire that rendered their prey helpless, loose-limbed, and compliant, but he hardly knew much of the world of fiction. It was all told to him by someone named Blackwood, known from some case a long time ago and false vampirism sacrifices. The details left him at an insistent stretch of his entrance under the work of slick fingers caused him to moan.

“Like that, do ya?” Moriarty’s breath was warm over Sherlock’s cheeks. “You should feel it. So hot and wet, clinging to my fingers. You’re just aching for it, dear. But I want you when you’re good and ready.” He dragged his teeth across the sharp jaw line. Sherlock inhaled.

“Please,” he gasped. Words failed to form after that, being reduced to tiny noises and whines. Moriarty deemed that acceptable, or he must have, since he scissored his fingers once more before sliding them out. Sherlock’s whimpers grew more insistent, though he hardly realized that noise was coming from his own throat until Jim swallowed them, kissing him fiercely as the slick sounds returned. Jim’s hands spread Sherlock’s creamy thighs, making sure he had the best place between them. The hands slid up and down the detective’s arms, coaxing the feeling back into them. Sherlock opened hazy eyes and moved his fingers, studying their movement before wrapping them around Jim’s neck. “What’ve you done to me?”

“Nothing you’ve said no to, love.” He breathed into the other’s mouth. Sherlock could see plainly now his caramel colored eyes had shifted to have flecks of red in them, something from enough works of fiction to be cliché. He could hardly tell with his nemesis’s pupils blown wide, face flush and his heart thundering above him. Seems the pheromones weren’t just for the prey. Sherlock furrowed his brows and his eyes snapped shut at the blunt pressure over his entrance. The slickness helped the head of Jim’s prick to slip in with little strain, but Jim hesitated nonetheless. “Don’t forget to breathe.” He pulled his head back enough to let a breath of fresh oxygen into Sherlock’s lungs before canting his hips more insistently.

Sherlock let his head rest back on the arm of the sofa as Jim kept himself propped up on his elbows. The first few moments seemed to drag on, Jim surprisingly being gentle and slow, and the sounds of lubricant between them not helping their anticipation. Soon Moriarty pressed as deep as he could go, pulling a cry from Sherlock below him. His thighs shuddered as the rest of him tried to grow accustomed to the feeling, and yet it seemed to be doing fine work of that itself, ready and willing for the vampire.

Said vampire was just as ready. Once Sherlock caught his breath he snatched it away once more, rocking his hips quickly, nearly pulling all the way out of Sherlock before thrusting back in. Sherlock’s whimpers turned to shrill cries and moans, his voice cracking and sounds being pushed out of him in time with Moriarty’s thrusts. His hands clung to Jim’s back, eliciting a groan from him, encouraging Sherlock to drag his nails down the smooth flesh. Jim snapped his hips harder, a louder and new moan erupting from Sherlock. The detective hardly had time to chastise his transport for making such a vulgar noise before Moriarty decided he wanted to hear more of them.

The breaths started to sound closer to a mantra of the recently-deceased criminal’s name, before crumbling away to just hot breaths. Jim bowed forward, licking at Sherlock lips, pressing his mouth to his throat and lapping at the sweat gathering there, humming in approval. He buried himself in as far as he could go with another harsh thrust, pressing into Sherlock in places that robbed even those breaths away.

“You gonna come just from my cock, darling? I’m sure you can. I can feel you, you’re so close dear.” Sherlock’s hips rolled along with Moriarty’s next thrust, his head hitting the armrest hard as his back arched. Filthier words were murmured into his mouth, over his cheek, down his throat, before a kiss was placed just above his collarbone. Sherlock was at a loss for words. Jim simply took that as affirmation.

He quickened his pace, slamming into the detective and losing all the careful grace he’d began with. One hand gripped on the detective’s hip, pressing bruises in with the pads of his fingers while his other hand slid around his back. Their sweat slicked chests were together, Sherlock’s hardness trapped between their abdomens. Jim just pulled him closer, each thrust grinding his cock into Jim’s stomach while his own pressed into his prostate.

“Jim, Jim…!” Sherlock managed to pant, his hands locked around Moriarty’s neck. A look down into the black depths, normally swirling with the colors of the ocean, Moriarty struck forward. His lips moved down to where he’d kissed only moments ago and bit down, hard. Sherlock let out a wail, Moriarty’s lips wet and sanguine while his chest was coated with cum. No feeling could beat it. He let his eyes close as he moaned into the detective’s neck, licking earnestly at the spot between his fangs as his thrusts stuttered. Jim’s muscles went taut as he climaxed, buried in Sherlock, and went lax where he lay. The hand on the pale, bruising hip slipped around his back as well, holding the angelic consultant close as he turned the feathers black.

Sherlock only breathed, his eyes heavy and stomach sticky. He didn’t even care that the criminal was dead weight on top of him. His body was hardly ready to get up and go anywhere. Gradually he felt the sharpness leave the skin of his neck, a tongue pressing against the wounds and lapping up the flow of blood. Time seemed to either pass in a blink or the wound had closed up rather suddenly.

“Sherly, dear, you’re not listening are you?” He heard the muffled voice grow closer to his ear. He simply hummed, not feeling able to do much else. He inhaled and felt every drop of blood coursing through his veins, every pump of his heart and inflation of his lungs. Everything felt much too warm and yet where his hands locked together behind Moriarty’s neck was cold. “It’ll take a while, love, but don’t you worry none. I’ll be takin’ care of ya.” Another kiss was pressed under his chin. A flick of a tongue over his closed lips made him drag his eyes open, staring up into the other’s eyes. A spark went off within him, causing a shudder to go through him. Jim chuckled, watching every expression that must have flashed over Sherlock’s countenance. “There’s a good boy…off you pop.” He whispered against Sherlock’s red lips, abused from where he must have bit them.

His strength was enough for Sherlock to weave his hands in Jim’s hair, having gained some length in his absence, and pull Jim the centimeter closer. Their lips pressed together sweetly, a slow swipe of tongues and a lingering taste of copper being passed back and forth. The presses grew feather-light in moments, Sherlock’s body going numb as another spark shot through him. His eyes were already closed, but he could sense Moriarty getting off of him, cleaning the remnants of their coupling, and dressing him warm enough for sleep. Seems he’d need it for a few days, then. Moriarty was a red dot in his crosshairs no matter where he paced about the room, but it hardly mattered, as it was usually bright behind his eyelids and warm against his side. 


End file.
